Nothing is what it seems on Craig's list, or so I should have known.

That's on me.

Bill came through the door in an ill-fitting black suit that could have fit a donkey. He was a plump man that busted at the

seams. His chin still sprinkled from the donut or pastry he had for lunch.

Sorry I'm late. He straightened and fixed his belt below his belly.

Had an emergency. People with greasy slicked back air and seedy disposition

are destined to be used car salesman.

Unfortunately, this one was my real estate agent.

He took me on a tour through the apartment.

It was a run-down place, sure, but nothing out of the ordinary.

The ceiling sunk in places, mold, saturated the walls and air.

It tasted like mossy growth, and things were quite damp. Though it was certainly not deserving of the cheapest place in the city,

there was something I wasn't seeing.

Eh, as you can see, he hobbled around the lounge, making white gestures.

Couple things that fix up, obviously.

The walls and floorboards creak, the fridge acting up a little strange,

couple leaks when the rain comes through. I stroked my five o'clock shadow pensively.

I've been sitting on this place for a while Bill. Something just doesn't that up, you know.

This place is dirt cheap dirt cheap.

He too fiddled with his beard freeing some crumbs on my potential new carpet

get you some new appliances, appliances,

scrub with the mold,

...